


where.

by epifania



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: 2nd Person Narration, Characters will be tagged as they appear in later chapters, Erik struggles with feelings, F/M, Female Reader, Gen, Mention of Death, Mention of abuse, Mutant Reader, Pre-Relationship, Reader's mutation is basically lycantrophy tbh, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, X-Men: First Class, X-Men: First Class cast, and Charles has a good ol time watching it unfold, in which reader finds her place in the world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epifania/pseuds/epifania
Summary: You are twenty two years old; you are a mutant, and for the first time in years you dare to think that you are not alone.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> a few things to note:  
> \- title comes from the song "where" by lisbeth scott, which was pretty much the only thing i listened to while writing this.  
> \- unbeta'd, as i just really needed to get it out. i tried to proof read it as best as i can, but if you spot any mistakes or inconsistencies, please let me know. i will go through it again some other day, when i'm not barely awake and, more importantly, supposed to be revising for my exams...  
> \- it may not be particularly clear from this chapter, as it mostly covers the reader's backstory, but it's probably going to be a erik/reader romance. it needs some building up first. we'll see where the story takes them  
> \- i'm planning to continue it and tie it with the plot of xmfc, possibly the following movies as well. we'll see.  
> \- this is the most ridiculously self-indulgent thing i've written in my life. gotta let off steam somehow i guess?? lmao  
> \- enjoy! and if you do, perhaps leave a word or two in a comment? it's been a while since i last wrote and i would love to read your thoughts.

_In the glistening_  
_Of the lost and open sky_  
_Tiny piece of you sits_  
_Simple wish waits for reply_

 _Where have you gone my feather-light heart?_  
_You mustn't forget what love can see._

_("Where", Lisbeth Scott)_

**1945.**

You are five years old; the world is big and scary,  but your house is warm and safe and you don’t quite understand what your mother means when she speaks of wars fought on the other side of the world; you don’t quite understand the emotion flicking through her eyes when you sit on her knees and she tells you of lost men fighting them. You are happy and sure of everything you know, your family is your mother, grandmother and grandfather, and Mo, the fat cat who lives in the attic. There’s no place there for a father you don’t even remember.

You are five years old; you don’t think it’s unusual that you know the cat’s name not because you gave it to him but because he introduced himself to you, and that you are friends with all the birds that live in your garden, and that you steal all the mouse traps your grandfather sets up around the house because the mice who live here are great-great-grandchildren of Tilly who was your best friend when you were two. You don’t tell your mother or grandparents that you talk to animals and  _they talk to you_ , because you think it’s something everyone does. 

You are five years old; you are a happy, ordinary child – until you are not.  

One morning you wake up, and everything is so _loud_  and  _bright_  and just so,  _so intense_. The world explodes in sounds and smells around you, making you want to cover your ears and scream, but your ears – they’re not  _where they’re supposed to be_. You’re overwhelmed and scared and you do what any five-year-old does in such situation – you go to your mother. She’s making breakfast in the kitchen and you expect her to hug you like she does every morning, to tell you it’s okay and that you will be fine – but when she turns around and sees you, she  _screams._

You are five years old; there’s a lot of things you don’t understand, but you can tell when somebody - somebody who is your whole world - is  _scared_  of you.   

Later, you don’t remember much of that morning. Impressions and emotions are the only memories you have, really. Your mother collects herself and does hug you, after all, although you can still see the fear in her eyes. You remember her whispering “my baby, oh, my poor baby, I was praying that you wouldn’t be like that too” repeatedly; you remember your grandparents' sullen expressions, and most of all you remember how you looked in the mirror and  _did not see yourself_.

**1953.**

You are thirteen years old; your house is as warm and safe as ever, your mother and grandparents as loving and accepting as they’ve always been – you can see that they never feel quite at ease around you, though at least they  _try_  – but you are a  _freak._

You now know that your late father was like you – well, not exactly, but he, too, was  _different._ He could see more than others, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make thing move, your mother says. That’s why he decided to fight in the war that killed him – he thought he could finally find use for his powers, that he could finally feel at peace with being what he was.

Over the years you’ve managed to get some semblance of control over your  _thing_ , as your family calls it. You’ve discovered that you can will yourself into looking like, well,  _yourself._ You do, most of the time, but your canines are always slightly too pointed and your eyes can never quite go back to their original color. Some nights you wake up with paws instead of hands and legs, and your senses sharpened beyond human imagination. Some nights you just can’t help it and you sneak out into the woods behind your house, to talk to the wild animals that live there because only they seem to understand you.

You try to live a normal life, you go to school and you read books and you help your grandmother in the garden. But you don’t have friends. Other children fear your pointed teeth and your inhuman eyes. The meeker ones simply avoid you, bowing their heads when they pass you by and whispering sharp, harmful words when they think they’re out of hearing range. The braver ones tease you openly, they call you a wild thing, a freak. The bravest steal your bag and hide it in places hard to reach, they push you in the school corridors and throw rocks at you when you cycle by their houses. 

You are thirteen years old; your house is warm and safe, but the rest of the world is not. Your best friends are the birds that live in your garden. You are thirteen, and sometimes, you are more wolf than human.

**1956.**

You are sixteen years old; your house is warm and safe - until it is not.

It’s a lovely spring afternoon, and you’re eating lunch on your school’s yard when Plato, a raven you’ve practically raised from hatchling, flies over to you, cawing your name frantically.

He doesn’t have to say anything more, you immediately know something is very wrong.

You run to your house as fast as your human legs can carry you, Plato flying close on your heel. About a mile away you start to smell smoke and hear a commotion, and your heart almost stops in your chest. You can feel anxious tears gathering in your eyes, and a feeling of pure terror is starting to overwhelm you, growing heavier with every step you take towards the house. You can see smoke as well now, and when you finally reach your street and your house comes into view, it's like you just got punched in the abdomen.

The house you grew up in is –  _was –_ rather small, but it was cozy and had a huge garden, with the woods starting right at its edge. It was all you and your family needed. You can remember every detail of the facade, the way windows reflect light depending on the time of the day. The distinct smell of every room. Every fragment of the floor that creaks louder than others. The weight of every door. The sound of every key on your father’s old piano standing in the middle of the living room. It was built from sturdy, aged wood and you could swear you felt it breathe whenever you touched the wooden walls covered in colorful floral wallpapers.

Now it’s burnt to the ground.

There is a thick crowd of people surrounding the ruin – the fire brigade, the police, almost all your neighbors. You look around frantically, but you can’t see your family anywhere.  _You can’t see your_   _mother_.

You can see, however, the pitying looks your neighbors give you. An elderly lady who lives across the street puts her hand on your shoulder tentatively, the people around you are whispering between themselves, the birds who live in the garden are screaming and you  _know._

A policemen approaches you, a look of deep sorrow on his face, and he opens his mouth to talk, but before he can say anything you notice three bodies covered completely with cloth laid out on the sidewalk.

The last thing you hear before fainting is your own scream. It sounds like a wolf’s howl.  

You are  _only_  sixteen years old; your world shatters.

**1956-1961.**

The following years are a blur, really.

First there are investigations and hearings and talking, talking,  _talking_  to the authorities. The police find out that the fire was not an accident, and manage to catch the arsonist. He is  _proud_ of what he did – the only regret he has is that he did not check if his real target – “the freak”,  _you_ – was in the house.

You have no living relatives left so you are put in foster family after foster family, but you can never quite find a place in any of them. You are more wolf than human, after all, and even though you try your  _goddamn best_ , you can never quit fit in with people. So you are dragged around the country, never staying in one place for more than a few months, and the only constant in your life is Plato, and having a raven follow you around does not exactly help. 

As soon as you turn eighteen, the government stops being concerned with you. You are handed the money your mother kept in bank - just enough to survive for a few months - and sent on your merry way. You’re supposed to take care of yourself on your own now, and you are happy to do so. You take up odd jobs to pay for  shitty food and even shittier apartments – a waitress here, a bartender there- but you can never find a place where you fit in. You never quite manage to gain people's trust, to build real relationships. Your teeth are too pointed, your eyes too inhuman. Sometimes you wake up with paws instead of hands and legs.

Wolves rarely live alone, and neither do humans. But you are not either, not really. You live on the outskirts of society, praying to God that one day you will find a place where you’ll belong.

You are eighteen, twenty, twenty one; you are neither wolf nor human; and you are alone.  

*******

**now. (1962)**

To be completely honest, you fucking _hate_ Georgia. It’s hot and humid, and really, you knew you despised that kind of weather so what the goddamn hell was six-months-ago-you thinking when she decided to come here?

Okay, you need to give your six-months-ago-self a break. Climate was not exactly a priority when you had to get as far away from Stryker as possible.

You had spent four months in his captivity before breaking out, and even though it wasn’t that long, you know it was enough to haunt you for the rest of your life. It started innocent enough – he showed up at the bar you were working at the time, and lured you in with forged kindness and fake acceptance. To be honest, your instincts were screaming at you to get the hell away from this man from day one, but he was just so kind and interested in you, aware of but not at all scared of your otherness. He promised he would help you understand yourself, and he said there were others like you. You finally knew _what_ you were, and maybe the word “mutant” does not sound very pleasant, but being a _mutant_ is better than being _nothing._ You were tired of being alone and you wanted to believe him so badly that you chose to ignore both your instincts and Plato’s worried cawing.

Well, at least now you know to always, _always_ listen to your gut and your raven.

As soon as you arrived at Stryker’s facility, he dropped the mask and all illusions of acceptance and the fragile sense of belonging you were starting to feel were shattered. The next four months are a blur of violence, verbal abuse and odd, cruel experiments that made you hurt so bad you could barely move or even think for days afterwards. You’re not even sure how you managed to escape, exactly. All you remember is that somehow they forgot to lock you up properly, and your wolf part took over as soon as you noticed a chance to escape. You vaguely remember people trying to stop you and the taste of blood in our mouth, and then getting outside and running like hell for God knows how long before Plato found you somehow, bless his bird soul, and managed to pull you out of your trance.

You  try not to think about the people you must have killed with your bare teeth in the process.

After that you spent two or three weeks in the woods, quite literally licking your wounds and not transforming back into your human form. When you notices that you started to forget what it felt like to walk on two legs instead of four you decided it’s time to get yourself together and try to pick up the pieces of your life.     

So, on second thought, maybe Georgia’s heat isn’t so bad.

It’s a quiet, lazy afternoon and the diner you’re currently hired at is empty. You’ve only worked here for a little over a month but you already know the names of most the clients. They’re a bit apprehensive of you – not uncommon in a small town like this – but you’ve learned to smile with your mouth closed, and in the sunny weather no one is surprised when sometimes you work in shades. The apartment you’re renting is run-down and small, but with your limited income it’s to be expected, really. The woods here smell different than the ones where you spent most of your childhood and youth, but when it’s really dark you can almost pretend you are back home. Surprisingly enough, Plato is doing well in the heat despite his thick black feathers, and the local magpies like you enough to share some of the trinkets they find with you, so all in all you can’t complain.

Still, that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy being here. You doubt much more time will pass before you snap and go back north. Maybe this time you’ll go to Canada. Crossing the border should not be too much trouble, you could just transform and travel through some wild terrain, far from any human settlements-

The sound of the door opening abruptly ends your musings. A sleepy small town in the dead center of Georgia is not exactly tourist magnet, so you expect another regular. The two men who enter, however, are strangers.

You can immediately tell they’re not from Georgia. You can also immediately tell that there is something unusual about them, but you can’t quite put a finger on what it is. It’s not _bad_ unusual like with Stryker though, or at least you’re not getting any dangerous vibes right away, so when they chose a window booth and sit down you put on your Trademark Customer Service Smile and head over to them.

“’Evening fellas, can I get you something to drink?”

The taller man  gives you a look you can’t quite decipher, but his friend greets you with a warm smile.

“Oh yes, definitely. We’re not used to this kind of weather, are we, Erik?” the other man – Erik, apparently – merely hums in reply, and his friend continues. “What would you recommend?”

You’ve always had a good ear for accents, and his is very pleasant – New York, you think, but with a bit of a British influence, as if he had spent time in England. Combined with his polite smile and the aura of kindness he seems to emit, it makes you like the man immediately. Which is odd, because you don’t _like_ people you have literally just met, especially clients. Huh.

“Well, I am known to make killer coffee. But if you’re hot, I’d suggest sweet tea, or a Coke? Or just plain water, I’m not exactly a fan of this heat myself and honestly, only water helps.”

“I’ll have a glass of sweet tea, please. Erik?”

“Just water, please.”

“Alright. Be right back with your drinks”, you leave the menus on the table and head for the fridge behind the counter where the cold drinks are kept. You’re in the middle of pouring water when you hear something that almost makes you drop the glass.

“Is this the girl we’re looking for, Charles?”      

Erik whispers, and hadn’t it been for your enhanced hearing, you wouldn’t have heard him. You feel your heart drop and try your best to keep your hands from shaking. They’re _looking for you?_ Are they Stryker’s people? You were so careful to leave no trace to follow, could they really have found you?

“I’m pretty sure it is. You know Cerebro is quite accurate with this stuff. Have you noticed how she smiled without showing her teeth? It made me pay attention to them when she spoke, and she obviously tries to hide it but her canines definitely don’t look normal. And there’s something about her- she seems so out of place, and not just in the sense of a Northerner struck in the deep South. It’s her, Eric.”

Well, _shit._

You consider your options on your way back to their booth, barely managing to keep your hands steady enough to not splash their drinks all around. To be honest, you don’t have many ideas, and they all include getting the hell out of here as soon as you can, possibly using the kitchen window.

“Have you decided if you want something to eat as well?”, you ask, trying to keep cool. Okay, so the plan is to get their order, go to the kitchen as if you are actually going to prepare it, and before they figure out what’s going on, _run like hell_.

Unfortunately the plan falls apart immediately, as instead of placing an order the man called Charles raises from his seat.

“Actually, no, but there’s something we want to talk to you about. My name is Charles Xavier and this is my friend, Erik Lensherr and we-“

Before he can finish sudden panic washes over and you bolt for the door.

You hear a “Christ, Charles, why do they always have to run?” followed by a “Shut up, Erik” behind you, and then-

_Wait, it’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you. Please don’t run!_

You stop dead in your tracks with one hand on the doorknob, completely shocked. You’ve witnessed a whole lot of weird things in your life, but _a voice in your head_? That’s a first.

“Please, it’s okay. We have no intention of hurting you, we just want to talk.” Charles speaks out loud this time, and you swallow hard, wondering if you were hallucinating a moment ago. Slowly, you turn around to face them, your hand never leaving the doorknob.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

You cringe upon hearing how much your voice shakes.

“Because,” says Erik, “we are mutants, like you.”

Your right hand clenches around the knob and you bite your lip so hard that you taste blood, trying to calm your breathing.

“That doesn’t prove that you have good intentions.”

“No, I guess it does not. But as you’ve probably noticed, I’m a telepath. If we wanted to hurt you, I could have just taken control over your thoughts right away. Why would I wait?’

You have to admit he’s right. And you did promise to always trust your gut, right? Right now you’re scared out of your mind, but you have to admit it’s mostly because you first thought they were Stryker's men. Beneath all that panic, your instincts are silent.

You let go of the doorknob and exhale slowly.

“Okay. Okay, I suppose we can talk.”

Both men smile in obvious relief and you can’t help but wonder why they seem to care so much. Charles points to the booth they were occupying a few minutes ago.

“Shall we sit down?” he asks, and as soon as you nod and take a seat across from him he picks up where started before you panicked.

“As I was saying, my name is Charles Xavier and this it Erik Lensherr. We are mutants like you – you are familiar with the term, aren’t you? – and we are here because we believe we can help you understand and develop your powers.”

“How do you even know I have… powers?”

“Our friend, who by the way is a mutant too, built a machine that allows me to find mutants using my telepathy.”

“Okay, so we’ve established that you are a telepath.” Charles nods, and you look at Erik. “And you?”

He smirks before replying.

“How about a deal? I’ll show you what I can do, but you tell us about your mutation first. And you tell us your name. That alright with you?”

You stare at him for a moment, considering, before letting out a slow breath and introducing yourself.

"There. Nice to meet you, I guess?” Charles chuckles and Erik smiles at your slightly sarcastic tone, and you feel yourself relax a little bit. ‘As for my… powers, well. You see how sharp my canines are, right? That’s because I kind of, uh, have two forms? I suppose the closest thing I can think of to call myself is, well, a werewolf.”

For your whole life you’ve been taught to keep quiet about your power so talking about it makes you feel slightly weird. You struggle to find the right words to describe it and your discomfort must be obvious, as Chares nods his head encouragingly. You run your hand through your hair before continuing.

“I used to have no control over when I transformed and how much of a wolf I was, but I got a hang of it growing up. Sometimes I still wake up in a different body than the one I went to sleep in, though, and on some days I can’t get my eyes to look… well, normal. And I’ve never been able to fix my teeth, my canines are always like this. I remember some kids used to call me a vampire because of them.” You force a little smile, trying to make it seem like a funny anecdote, but you can see it doesn’t quite work. A flicker of sadness crosses through Charles’ face, and Erik’s eyes seem to flash with anger.

Seriously, _why_ do they seem to care so much?  

“And besides that, my senses are very sharp – hearing and smell, especially – and I suppose I’m more agile and resilient than most people? Most likely thanks to the wolf thing. Oh, and I can talk to animals. No, that’s not right, everyone can talk to animals if they want to. I mean, uh, I can actually _talk_ to them, and I understand them. The wolf thing started when I was five or so, but animals spoke to me ever since I can remember. Um, that’s about it.”

“That sounds absolutely _brilliant_!” Charles exclaims, and you are slightly taken aback by his enthusiasm. “Could you show us how you do it?”

Frankly, you would rather not, the memories of Stryker making you transform with blunt force and pain still fresh in your mind, but you suppose it can’t be avoided.

“I guess… but I still don’t know what _you_ do. So why don’t you go first?” you say, nodding at Erik.

“Fair enough. A deal’s a deal, after all.” He smiles, and looks around the diner. After a few seconds of scanning their surroundings, his eyes settle on a stack of metal trays on the far end of the counter. He raises his hand, and you jump a little in surprise when the trays start floating, forming a perfect, moving circle in the air.

“Wow. So like, telekinesis?”

“Close, but not quite. I control metal.”

“Neat”, you say, shaking your head disbelievingly. “A telepath and a guy who bends metal to his will. I’m starting to feel lame.”

“Don’t say that, from what we’ve heard your mutation sounds incredible!” Charles says, and you have to admit that his enthusiasm is starting to get to you. At this point you feel completely calm – you’re still a bit apprehensive of these two strange men, but your gut is telling you that you can trust them. And you _want_ to trust them, you realize, a bit surprised.

You sigh at the expecting look they give you.

“Right, it’s my turn. God, I feel so weird doing this in front of people…” you raise from the booth, close your eyes and in your thoughts you call for the wild part of yourself.

You’ve transformed in front of a mirror once or twice in the past, so you know that the moment of change is not particularly spectacular. It’s like reality around you distorts for a moment, and before you can blink there’s a wolf standing in the place of a woman. So when you open your eyes, you are taken aback by the looks on Charles’ and Erik’s faces.

Charles grins ear to ear, absolutely delighted. Erik seems to be in utter awe.

You wag your tail a bit, feeling slightly uneasy under their combined gaze, and after a few seconds you go back to your human form. You shrug your shoulders and smile sheepishly as Charles begins to clap his hands.

“Brilliant, absolutely _brilliant!”_ he laughs. “Are you sure you’re a wolf though? Cause frankly I’ve never seen one like you.”

You shrug again. He does have a point. You’ve never seen a wolf quite this big, or with fur as perfectly white as yours. Still, it’s the only name you for your other form you could ever think of. It feels right, and that’s all that matters to you.

You clear your throat and you speak again.

“So. You said you could help me gain better control of my powers. How?”

They tell you all about the team they’re building, about the other mutants they’ve found so far, their goals and hopes for the future, and how they think they can help. Charles uses his power to show you his mansion, his adopted sister Raven, the machine he mentioned, Cerebro, and the man who built it, Hank. Over an hour later, he drops the question.

“So, [name]. Would you like to come with us?”

You ponder over the question for a minute, biting your lip in concentration. You study their faces in concentration, cataloguing the different emotions you can see on them. Above all, they both seem – hopeful?

Almost as hopeful as you find yourself feeling.

After a few moments you break into a grin. Charles mirrors your expression, and Erik lets out a breath.

“Yeah. I think so, I- yeah. It’s not like I have much else to do, right?”

“I’m truly delighted to hear that. When can we-“

“Aah, not so fast!” You hold up your hands, interrupting him. “I _do_ want to come with you, but there’s someone I have to consult it with. In fact, why don’t I go and do it immediately…”

They stare at you, dumbfounded, but when you raise from the booth and head for the diner’s door they follow you. Outside, you put two fingers to your mouth and whistle loudly. After a few seconds a black shape raises from the tree a few buildings over, and Plato lands on your extended shoulder.

“Erik, Charles, this is Plato. His parents abandoned him in the garden of my old house when I was fourteen, and he’s been with me ever since. I hope you don’t have a “no pets” policy, because if he’s not coming, neither am I.”

Charles laughs, and Erik shakes his head with a small smile.

“I think we’ll be fine. I’m sure we’ll find some place for him.”

You smile and turn to the raven.

“Do you think I should trust them and go?” you ask after giving him a shortened version of Charles’ and Erik’s story. Plato studies the men intently for a minute or so, and then he pecks at a strand of your hair affectionately.

_They seem okay to me. What do we have to lose?_

When you turn back to the men, both are staring at you and Plato expectantly. You grin widely, not bothering to hide your sharp teeth.

“Well. I think we’re ready to go.”

You are twenty two years old; you are neither wolf nor human. You are a mutant, and for the first time in years you dare to think that you are not alone.

 

 

****

****

      


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes take a plane, and your new life begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- as always, i apologize for any mistakes i might have made. still not a native speaker, still lacking a beta, still writing when sleep deprived. if you see i goofed anything please point it out in the comments!  
> \- hope no one is too obnoxiously ooc. please let me know if they are. it's my first time writing these guys.  
> \- hopefully, enjoy!

In your lifetime you’ve went through years of bullying, losing your family, a number of questionable foster homes, living on the run and literal abuse and experimentation on your body; and yet none of these things seem as terrifying as getting on a plane for the first time.

The fact that it’s a luxurious private jet owned by the Xavier family (because oh, did Charles not mention how conveniently rich he is?), piloted by the Hank guy who, as far as you tell from the few conversations you've shared so far, is very reliable as well a literal genius, does not help much.

“You alright?”, Charles asks when he notices the way your breathing speeds up as soon as the plane starts moving. You nod, trying not to show just how badly you are freaking out when it takes off, but you suspect you’re failing miserably.  

“Yeah. I’m just, uh, not that good with heights.”

 _Since when? I seem to recall you spending most of your childhood climbing trees,_ Plato remarks from his perch on the armchair’s back. The raven is mesmerized by the idea of flying so high, and stares out of the small window with pure wonder if his eyes. At least one of you is enjoying this.

“Trees are attached to the ground, Birdbrain. Totally different situation,” you say, gripping the armrests tightly. That makes Erik, who’s sitting in his own chair not too far from you, laugh. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look annoyed, but again you suspect it doesn’t  quite work as you’re probably literally green on the face from the nausea the pressure change gives you. “Sure, laugh at me for not feeling comfortable in a metal box that weights hundreds of tons and yet magically flies thousands of feet in the sky – and before you correct me, Hank, I _do_ know it’s not magic, thank you very much! It’s called being ironic!” You raise your voice at the end. 

“Relax. I promise you are one hundred percent safe here. May I?” Charles asks before covering your hand with his reassuringly. “Now focus on breathing out. Not in, out, make it as long as you can. That’s it, you’re already much calmer, see? And hey, even if something were to happen, we have a guy who controls metal on board, remember? I bet Eric could hold us afloat.”

Erik just raises his brow at this, and he looks like he wants to disagree but chooses not to, perhaps for the sake of your peace of mind. Charles is right though, you are slowly calming down. The telepath seems satisfied with your mental state and once the plane reaches the right altitude, he gets up to join Hank in the cockpit. After several more minutes you even dare to look outside, but you immediately regret it. Seeing all these clouds in the wrong place makes you feel dizzy again.

“Shit. I did not think this through when I agreed to come with you, did I?”

“Well, how did you think we’ll get to the literal other end of the country?” Erik asks, raising his brow again. He does that a lot, you notice.

“I don’t know, a road trip? I had this image of the three-  _four_ of us, Jesus” you add annoyed when Plato pulls your hair, “bonding over bad coffee from some suspicious diner and playing road games in mind.” 

Erik stares at you for a few seconds before he speaks.

“You know, I expected you to be much more… reserved and wary, I guess, given the fact that you’ve been on the run for God knows how long. But you seem rather comfortable around us. You certainly don’t strike me as shy like I thought you’d after Charles told me what he’d found out about you. We thought it would take a lot more to convince you to trust us.”

“Well, thanks for making me sound like some kind of a socially awkward hermit. I’ll have you know, I do in fact get plenty of human interaction.” You cross your arms, mock offended. “Seriously though. For one, sure, my past experiences made it hard to be miss outgoing, but I’ve never really been a loner by nature, you know? The whole “lone wolf” thing is a myth, it literally never happens. I actually like being around people, always have. The fact that they don’t like me for obvious reasons makes it a bit problematic, sure, and liking being around them does not always mean understanding them. And there’s always _some_ wariness there. But all of this doesn’t mean I have to be afraid of others or whatever… That, and you guys just seem trustworthy…ier than most other people I’ve met, I guess? You’ve been honest with me so far, I reckon if you wanted to rob and murder me, you would have done that by now.” You shrugged and stroked Plato’s feathers absent-mindedly. “And frankly, it’s enough for me that you’re okay by Birdbrain over here. He’s a real good judge of character. Should have listened to him about Stryker…”

 _Damn right, you should have,_ the raven caws and presses his beak to your cheek affectionately. You try not to dwell on the past, but the rare moments you let yourself remember what Styker did you still bring you down. Erik senses the shift in your mood and changes the subject.

“Do you play chess?”

You lit up at the welcome distraction.

“God, I haven’t played in years! But yeah, my grandfather taught me, we used to play  every Saturday. I can barely remember the rules now, but I’d love to try it again.”

“Why not right now? There’s still a couple of hours before we get home, and I think Charles has a set stashed somewhere here.”

“He keeps any alcohol here as well?”

“Are you even old enough to drink?” Erik smirks.

“Screw you, I’m twenty three in two months.”

“I don’t know, you look kind of young to me.”

“Where’s that chessboard? I really feel like figuratively kicking your ass right now.”

***

“Holy freaking shit! _”_ you exclaim as you step out of the plane and Charles’ family home comes into view. “Just how rich are you, and if I hypothetically married you how much of that money would become mine?”

Hank gives you an odd look, but Charles and Erik both snort.

“Darling, no need to seduce me into a convenience marriage. As long as you’re a part of our team you can consider it all yours as well.”

“Christ, Charles, I’ve known you for all of two days, maybe cut down on spoiling me cause at this rate I’ll get too used to luxury and become totally unbearable by the next week.”

You whistle loudly, taking in the mansion as you approach it. The closer you get, the more impressive it gets. It looks like something straight out of a Jane Austen novel  – it’s almost exactly like you imagined Mister Bingley’s house.  

The next few hours pass in a blur or getting settled into your new room, getting fed and, most of all, getting to know the other young mutants that have already been recruited. They all seem nice so far, and they all are absolutely in love with Plato (“Hey Raven, now that we have an actual raven will you change your name to not get confused?” “Fuck off Sean _”),_ who, true to his vain nature, is in turn delighted by all the attention he gets. He is immediately dubbed the Team Pet Slash Official Mascot which, honestly, should bother you because Birdbrain is _your_ best friend, but somehow it doesn’t bother you at all.

When you go to bed that first night, completely worn out by all the emotions of the day, Plato snoozing perched on a hat stand by the window and your scarce belongings organized neatly in the shelves that are now officially yours, you think that what you’re feeling might be _belonging._

You don’t want to jinx it that early on, but as you’re falling asleep, for once in your life you allow yourself to hope.

***

You are woken up by the smell of coffee.

You blink in confusion, trying to remember where you are. The last time you’ve been woken like that was when your family was still alive… for a good few seconds you are almost convinced that all you’ve been through has been just a dream, that you are still a kid and that any second now your mother will knock on the door to wake you up for school. As your sleepy haze subsides, though, the memories of the last few days come back to you.

Honestly, the last several years being a dream almost sounds more plausible than reality.

Plato is nowhere to be seen – you left the window open for the night, so he probably left to explore the nearby forests as soon as the sun rose. You have no idea what time it is, but judging by the soft sunlight and the birds you can hear chirping outside, it can’t be later than six. You are used to getting up early and you feel more rested than you have in months, so you decide to follow the scent of coffee hoping that it will lead you to the kitchen. You doubt you would make it there on your own on the first try. Even with your enhanced senses it’s hard, with the houses meandering hallways that all look the same. It doesn’t help that you are still not quite awake, you need your daily dose of caffeine to properly clear your mind in the mornings.

The kitchen is empty safe for Erik. He’s staring out of the window, what looks like a very expensive antique coffee cup in his hand, obviously lost in thought. For some reason you expected the other early bird to be one of the younger mutants, Darwin or the blond guy, Axel or something, but you’re kind of relieved it’s someone you know a little better. Still, Erik doesn’t strike you as someone who likes to be up so early, and as you study him you notice his hair is ruffled like he tossed and turned for hours, and there are noticeable dark circles under his eyes. You wonder if he slept at all this night. He hasn’t noticed you yet, so maybe he’s not so much deep in thought as you assumed, but rather just zoning out due to sleep deprivation...

You decide to hum a small greeting and he actually startles.

“Ah. Good morning, I didn’t hear you come in. You're up pretty early.”

You shrug and stifle a yawn before answering. “Could say the same about you.”

“True.” Erik smiles a little – boy, he really looks tired – and moves to set his cup on the countertop. “I just didn’t take you for a morning person.”

“You sure make a lot of assumptions about me, don’t you?” You cringe, mock-offended, and it’s his turn to shrug. “Right, anyway. Where do you guys keep coffee? Charles told me to feel at home and I’m planning to take full advantage of that, at least when it comes to my daily dose of caffeine.”

“Second cupboard to the right. The cups are over there” he replies, pointing to a giant display cabinet on the wall behind you. You nod and turn to reach for one of but stop dead in your tracks when Erik continues talking.

“Nice ears, by the way.”

“What?” you reach up to your head and, of course, you can feel big, furry ears stick out from your hair. You can feel your face go hot as you try to cover them with your hands.  “Shit, God, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice… that happens sometimes when I’m asleep, I should control this better-“

“Hey, calm down, it’s okay!” Erik interrupts you. You shut up, confused, your hands still on your fluffy wolf ears. “When I said they’re nice, I meant. You don’t have to hide your mutation here, and you should not be ashamed of it. Quite the opposite actually. From what we’ve seen you are quite extraordinary. You should be proud of it.”

You cock your head a little in thought - a mannerism  of yours that is much more dog-like than you’d like to admit – but you put your hands down, uncovering your ears, as you consider his words. Finally you sight and go back to making your coffee. It’s way too early and you are not caffeinated enough for such conversations.

“Easy for you to say, mister I-Bend-Metal-To-My-Will-And-Look-Totally-Awesome-While-Doing-So. It’s hard to be proud of your… mutation”, you’re still not quite used to the word, “when it makes you a literal-”

“Monster?”

You cringe.

“I was going to say werewolf, but, yeah. Pretty much.”

“I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s like for you, but trust me, I do know something about feeling like a monster.”

Your coffee is finally ready, so you sit on of the barstools at the countertop, facing him. Erik watches you drink in an oddly comfortable silence, and you feel more grounded in reality with every sip. Finally you set the empty cup down and size him up, your eyes narrowing in consideration.

“Alright. Now that I’m properly caffeinated. Wanna talk about it?”

Erik raises his brows at this.

“I thought we were talking about you.”

“I literally just woke up, it’s gonna take at least a few hours before I feel human enough to talk about myself. And honestly, you just look kind of down for such a nice morning. And what you just said- sounds like there’s a story. Thought maybe you’d like to vent.” You shrug.

“‘Kind of down’, as in, I look like shit and you’re too polite to say that?” He smirks and you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Come on, do I strike you as particularly polite? That’s the third false assumption about me you make in as many days. You must be a terrible judge of character.”

Erik laughs, and you can’t help but grin at him. It makes him look younger, and much more approachable. He looks quite intimidating most of the time, all tall posture and strong jaw line, but right now, laughing in the soft morning light, with his untidy hair and reddish-brown stubble beginning to show, it’s like there’s a different person sitting in front of you.

Not that you’ve been particularly intimidated by him, but it’s still a nice change.

He takes a sip of his now cooled-down coffee before speaking.

“Thanks for caring, I guess. I didn’t sleep well tonight, is all. And you’re right, it’s too early for that kind of talk. Hungry? You’re not planning to get through your first day here on one cup of coffee.”

“Uh, I kind of was. It’s usually enough for me til noon.”

“Oh, it won’t be enough today” you hear Charles say as he enters the kitchen and heads for the fridge. “You better eat a solid breakfast, you’ll need a lot of energy for your first training. Eggs sound good to you?”

“What? What first training? I thought you’d give me some time to get settled down first, you know, explore the area, get to know the gang?”

“You will. During training.” Charles sounds awfully cheerful for somebody who just got up. You kind of want to ask him what got him in such a good mood, but think better of it.

“Jesus, you don’t waste any time, do you? I guess I only have myself to blame, though. I _did_ tell you do stop spoiling me. And yeah, eggs are fine.”  

Charles makes breakfast for the two of you.

 “Only this one time, since it’s your first day”, he says, setting the plate before you.

 “Forgot about me, Charles?” Erik interjects, feigning a sweet little smile. Charles flips him off before digging into his plate.

They keep up a casual conversation, full of what you assume are references and inside jokes you are not privy to. It reminds you of the two boys who lived several houses across from you. They were brothers two or three years apart, and you would play with them sometimes when you were little. Paradoxically, spending time with them would always make you feel lonely, wishing for siblings of your own.

Although oddly similar, watching Erik and Charles interact over the breakfast table makes you feel the exact opposite. Once again, you are surprised by how comfortable and natural you feel in their presence. After all you’ve only met them a few short days ago, you should be feeling uncertain and awkward. Instead, you’re sitting in this giant, luxurious kitchen for the second time in your life, feeling like you’ve lived here forever. They include you in the conversation every once in a while, asking you little questions, and when the others start coming up for breakfast it starts to feel like your last diner’s rush hour. Sean is arguing with Alex over a box of cereal, Darwin is rummaging through the cabinets, Hank is laughing at something Raven said, and strangely enough the commotion doesn’t make you uncomfortable _at all_. At some point Plato flies in through the open window and sits on your shoulder cawing excitedly about the _incredible forests around here, and there are even some ravens here, quite delightful folk, you must meet them_ , and honestly, you can’t recall the last time you’ve felt so at home anywhere.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to hit me up at hawkhills.tumblr.com


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